


Principles and Shit

by AvaMclean



Series: Miles to Go [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1992), Supernatural
Genre: Community: tamingthemuse, Crossover, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hunting, Minor Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 15:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaMclean/pseuds/AvaMclean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fist to the jaw will shut most men up, but then Oliver Pike wasn’t most men. (Series: Miles to Go)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Title: Principles and Shit  
Series Title: [Miles to Go](http://archiveofourown.org/series/30282)  
Word Count: 1155  
Prompt: #362 malleable @ tamingthemuse  
Rating: FR13  
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all related characters are copyright Eric Kripke, Kripke Enterprises & The CW Network. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright Joss Whedon and ME. No infringement intended.  
Note: These shorts takes place before '[Oleander Wine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/575922/chapters/1032674).' 

Synopsis: A fist to the jaw will shut most men up, but then Oliver Pike wasn’t most men

* * *

A fist to the jaw will shut most men up, but then Oliver Pike wasn’t most men. It helped that he’d spent the better part of the last year traveling around America’s Midwest hunting things that frightened normal people and those _things_ hit harder than any human. That practice in taking hard knocks was what allowed him to keep his feet as he felt the inside of his mouth grind against his molars. 

His head jerked and he stumbled back a step, a step that he extended so he’d have enough time to get his own fists up in response, as the copper tang of blood reached his tongue. Blue eyes narrowed on the thick-necked _sonofabitch_ that seemed to have more muscle than sense and Pike smirked at the dirty look being tossed his way. 

Pike’s head inclined and he couldn’t help but scoff, “My ex-girlfriend hits harder than that.” 

The next swing came quicker than the first and sloppier, much easier to dodge, but the jab that followed found a solid connection with Pike’s ribs and the forced exhale left him breathless and coughing. He wheezed, attempting to draw in a breath as the guy dove for him and Pike forced himself to straighten, putting his back against the bar and it shuddered with their impact. His beer toppled, rattling against the worn wood holding him up and his brows tugged together at the familiar sound of a shotgun being pumped. 

The arms around his middle tightened, cutting off his breath and Pike brought his left fist forward to connect soundly with the side of his attacker’s skull. Those arms released him and the _sonofabitch_ rose, clutching his ear and swearing up a storm which gave Pike the distraction he needed to bring a closed fist against his sternum. The much larger man’s breath exploded outward, but the memory of the shotgun stopped Pike from finishing him with a well-placed boot. 

His time spent with Summers had taught Pike to take every advantage and, granted, a steel toe to the balls wasn’t the most sportsmanly of things, but that wouldn’t stop him—hell that mentality had saved him more than once. Human flesh was on the weaker side and Pike had never been one to just allow his flesh to just be beaten, torn or eaten. Though his time with Summers had provided him with the opportunity to learn how to have his ass properly handed to him. 

Repeatedly. 

Pike caught sight of the shotgun out of the corner of his eye and knew it was leveled at the other guy as he finally righted himself. Brown eyes narrowed on it and Pike cocked his head away from the barrel as the owner of Harvelle’s, who was a bigger ballbuster than most, stated calmly, “Get outta my bar.” 

The idiot frowned at the words, as if they confused him, before he snapped. “I didn’t start—”

“I don’t give a shit about the starting. I’m finishing.” Ellen Harvelle kept the barrel steady beside Pike’s head as she questioned, “Now are you gonna go peaceful, Pete, or do you want a chest full of rock salt?” There was an exasperated sigh before Ellen tacked on, “Again.” 

“I’m going. I’m going.” The _sonofabitch_ , apparently named Pete, groused. 

His whole demeanor deflated, but Pike kept an eye on him as he grabbed his leather jacket from the back of his chair and made his way towards the exit. He spared Pike one more narrow-eyed glare before he snatched open the screened-door and made his way out into the sunshine. Pike waited until the door slammed closed before he allowed some of the tension in his shoulders to ease and he tilted his chin back and to the right far enough so that he could gaze up at Ellen as he offered, “Thanks.” 

The smack to the side of his head wasn’t unexpected and he let his chin fall back towards his chest as Ellen lowered the shotgun to the bar and righted his beer. A rag was tossed in his general direction with the order, “Clean up after y’urself.” 

Pike obliged, snagging the rag and set to work sopping up the mess that had once been a deliciously cold Miller. He frowned at the fact that he’d just wasted five bucks, but calling that idiot Pete out on being a _fuckin’_ liar had been worth the hassle and lost beer. Pike could give a shit less if other hunters took credit for his kills, but when they did it to his girl—not that Summers was _his_ anymore—it just didn’t sit right. Especially when he knew how much she’d lost facing off against Lothos and to have some _sonofabitch_ take claim of her hard work and split blood just hadn’t been something Pike could allow to stand. 

He finished mopping up his beer and set to work righting his knocked over barstool as Ellen came back from the kitchen area with a mop and another rag. She paused a few feet from him and quirked a brow before questioning, “I’m guessin’ you know what actually happened in Los Angeles.” 

“What was it that gave me away?” Pike snarked, “The part where I told that shithead to shut his lyin’ trap or when I hit ‘em?” 

The other brow rose to match the other and Ellen handed him the rag, this one damp, and set to work mopping up the little bit of beer that had trickled down from the bar and the few specks of blood that decorated the floor. Pike turned back to the bar and wiped away the last traces of his beer, ensuring there wasn’t any residue left that could and would later turn into a sticky mess later. 

“The way I understand it,” Ellen spoke over the scrapping of the mop against the wooden floorboard, “It was a lady hunter that handled the vampire outbreak in Los Angeles.” She glanced up, blue eyes narrowed on him, “You’re pretty enough, but you don’t much look like a lady to me, son.” 

Pike snorted and turned his head to look at Ellen over his shoulder, “You think I’m pretty?” 

Her mouth turned in at the corners, but she dipped her chin and continued to scrub at the floor before snapping, “The point. Stick to it.” 

He sighed and turned back to the bar top, arm working furiously at a spot he’d already cleaned as he stated, “I knew the hunter that handled Lothos.” His arm slowed as he offered, “She had a rough time of it and I didn’t like him taken credit.”

“Understandable.” They were quiet a moment, both lost within their mutual tasks before Ellen offered, more to the room at large than Pike in particular, “Still in love with her then.” 

He answered her statement as if it were a question. “Apparently.” 

Ellen’s quiet chuckle was her only retort to that.

* * *

The end.


	2. Making Friends

Title: Making Friends  
Series: Miles to Go  
Rating: FR13  
Word Count: 1010  
Prompt: #366 sarcasm @ tamingthemuse   
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all related characters are copyright Eric Kripke, Kripke Enterprises & The CW Network. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright Joss Whedon and ME. No infringement intended. 

Synopsis: Ellen rarely sings a hunter’s praises so when she does it’s best to shut yer trap and listen up. Bobby forgets that sometimes.

* * *

Muted light spilled in through windows along the far wall and brought the motes of dust scattered through the air to life. The dust was stirred by the fans spinning overhead as they did their best to fight of the heat of a summer sun. A beer bottle sat empty and forgotten beside Bobby Singer as he studied the owner of Harvelle’s. Ellen was doing her damnedest to make a case for the only other hunter, hell the only other person, at the bar. He sat several seats down from Bobby which was the main reason Ellen’s whiskey rough voice was pitched low as she’d leaned in to him. 

“He’s a good kid—”

“Emphasis on kid,” Bobby interrupted to snark. 

“And a damn fine hunter,” Ellen finished as if he hadn’t even spoken. The narrowed look he was getting made him ease back from the bar a bit as she finished, “He’s young. I’ll give you that, but he’s smart and determined. Reminds me a bit of the Winchesters,” she sighed, “Before the world chewed’em up and spat’em back out.” 

Blue eyes studied the kid from beneath a pulled down trucker’s hat, brows furrowing as he watched him down a shot of clear liquid before taking a long pull from his beer. He didn’t grimace at the aftertaste and Bobby knew Bean had a hell of a kick for first time drinkers and his mouth turned down at the corners as he admonished, “He old enough to be drinkin’?” 

“You, judging me in my own damn bar?” 

Bobby stiffened and returned Ellen’s glare with one of his own as he snapped, “I ain’t got time to babysit.” 

“I ain’t askin’ you to.” Ellen countered.

“Then what in the Sam Hill’er—”

“I can hear you. Just fine actually.” 

The casual statement was spoken over Bobby’s annoyed words and both turned to take on the younger man as he rose from his place at the far end of the bar. He strolled forward and Bobby frowned at the Clash t-shirt that clung to his chest. A chest that was broad at the shoulders, but narrow through the rest of him which meant he hadn’t bulked himself out like some of the other younger hunters. Hunters that tended to have more muscle than skill and mouths bigger than their brains and, as far as Bobby was concerned, this kid was one of them until proven otherwise. 

“Oliver,” Ellen’s greeting was several degrees warmer than the glare Bobby was giving him. She turned, shooting Bobby a reproachful look that would’ve done his momma proud before she stated simply, “Bobby Singer meet Oliver Pike.” 

He didn’t bother to muster a smile for the kid, but he did accept his offered hand. Bobby rose with the handshake since he had manners, regardless of what Ellen may think. The kid didn’t bother to press down harder than necessary which earned a small nodded of approval from Bobby and his hand was cool, most likely due to the beer, and callused. Oliver’s mouth remained in a neutral, I don’t give a shit, line that had him inching closer to being in Bobby’s decent, if not entirely good, graces. 

He nodded, mouth quirking slightly then, and dropped his hand, easing back a step as he addressed Ellen, “There a reason you’re chattin’ me up to a stranger?” 

“Chattin’ you up?” Bobby muttered to himself and shook his head. 

Ellen spared him an annoyed look. “He’s in over his head.”

“Now wait just a goddamn minute—”

“You are,” Ellen snapped in her best ‘don’t test me’ voice and Bobby’s mouth snapped shut as she continued, “His usual backup is neck deep in trouble,” she snorted, “as usual and can’t break away. I was suggesting you might be able to lend him a hand.” 

“Is that right?” He directed the question to Bobby with a raised brow. 

“It is,” Bobby nodded, shoulders dropping, but he wasn’t yet ready to concede defeat as he countered, “Not entirely certain on the backup requirement.” The kid’s head inclined and Bobby sighed, “Though I suppose I wouldn’t turn help away if it was offered.” 

The second brow rose to meet the other and a twitch curved in the corner of his mouth. “I haven’t offered.” Ellen made a disgruntled sound that had the kid smiling outright and Bobby knocked another three years off the age he’d estimated him before Oliver continued, “Now hold on, Ellen. I didn’t say I wouldn’t offer either.” He looked back to Bobby, “Why don’t we sit, share a beer and you tell me what it is you’re tryin’ to do.” 

“Burn some bones,” was spat in his general direction as Bobby shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. 

A chuckle escaped Oliver and he shook his head. “How ‘bout the less abridged version?” 

His mouth thinned and Bobby took a moment to actually study a face that he’d call pretty before he’d call it handsome. Which reminded him a bit of Dean—not that he’d ever tell the Dean that—and tried to look past his initial misgivings since Ellen rarely sang a hunter’s praises. The stubble he’d let grow helped age him a bit, but it was his gaze, direct and achingly tired, that dropped Bobby’s chin into a nod. 

“Alright,” he motioned him to take a chair as he did so himself before adding, “And you’re buying.” 

“Fair enough.” 

Ellen scoffed, “You’re both idjits.” 

Bobby eased into the chair and a Miller appeared before him. He nodded his thanks and watched as Ellen went to work wiping down the bar that had already been wiped clean as she pretended to give them some space. It lasted all of ten minutes before she’d made her way back over and into their conversation and by the time that conversation was done Bobby was six beers deep and in agreement to head out on a hunt with Oliver the next morning. 

Whether or not he was an idjit for the decision would remain to be seen.

* * *

The end.


	3. It'll Kill Ya

Title: It’ll Kill Ya  
Series: Miles to Go  
Rating: FR13  
Word Count: 400  
Challenge: August Fic-a-Day @ twistedshorts  
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all related characters are copyright Eric Kripke, Kripke Enterprises & The CW Network. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright Joss Whedon and ME. No infringement intended.

* * *

The phosphorus ignited, white hot before fading into a more mellow orange, and with it came the scent of sulfur before Pike dropped the burning matchbook onto the butane soaked bones of Michael Welch. The remains caught with the familiar sizzle of hair and clothe before the bones ignited and the ghost’s outraged shriek behind Pike had him smirking in triumph. His hand slipped inside the pocket of his jeans and freed another matchbook from Harvelle’s and his cigarettes as a Bobby Singer, grumbling about, ‘balls and whatnot’ dragged his ass up from the ground where Welch had been making him his bitch. 

Not that Pike had room to mock. He was covered in dirt and flowers from his time being dragged through the cemetery. His head had taken on more than a few tombstones and the tightness around his left eye told him he’d have one hell of a shiner come morning. He scratched at that side of his head with the matchbook as he brought the pack of smokes up to catch one in his teeth and tug it free. The cigarette was lit, warming his hands and creating a shiny ember for Pike to focus on rather than the crumbling ash six feet below his boots. 

The deceptively mint feeling of the menthol coating his throat was a welcomed thing as he sucked in his first inhalation before allowing it to slowly trickle out his nose. “Those ‘ell kill ya.”

Pike snorted and turned, presenting Bobby with a profile outlined in firelight as he scoffed, “As if this life won’t?” 

“Point,” the gruff reply had Pike chuckling. 

He turned back to the fire and watched it attempt, and fail, to spread to the damp wood of the coffin before adding, “’sides. I only smoke as reward for a job well done.” 

“You call this well done?” 

“We’re alive and he’s dead,” Pike frowned before adding, “er.” 

“I suppose so.” It was Bobby’s turn to snort as he stepped forward to join him graveside before adding, “Ellen might’ve been right about you.” 

Pike nodded his thanks rather than voicing it, but thought to add, “It’s best to just tell Ellen she’s right.” 

“Ain’t that the damn truth.” 

They shared a chuckle as the bones continued to burn long after Welch had been consumed by the fire and Pike and Bobby fell into a companionable silence until the flames died.

* * *

The end.


	4. White Adler

Title: White Adler  
Series: [Miles to Go](http://archiveofourown.org/series/30282)  
Rating: FR13  
Prompt: #368 light @ tamingthemuse  
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright Joss Whedon and ME. Supernatural and all related characters are copyright Eric Kripke, Kripke Enterprises & The CW Network. No infringement intended.

Synopsis: Pike was nearly finished with his cigarette by the time he'd reached the grave he’d come to Sunnydale to see.

* * *

Sunlight crept in through the leaves of the tree Pike had claimed as his own soon after entering Shady Hill Cemetery. The low-lying limbs offered some cover, but the white bark scratched at him through the sleeve of his shirt. He leant against the trunk and studied a cemetery that was neither shady nor hilly and his mouth quirked at the shoddy promise its name entailed as he brought his cigarette up and took a quick inhalation of nicotine packed smoke. 

He exhaled through his nose, welcoming the slight burn of it, and dropped his arm back down. He scrapped his thumb over the flitter to ash the cigarette and watched as the little bits of grey floated down onto the manicured grass beneath his boots. Another sigh expelled from his nose and he missed the burn from the smoke which brought his arm up as he stepped free of the tree’s shadow and headed towards the path setup to lead people through the cemetery. He took another drag from his cigarette as his foot falls crunched over the white rocks creating that path and followed them on a winding trail past mausoleums and stone angels. 

He was nearly finished with his cigarette and the sun had created a damp path down his spine by the time he'd reached the marker he’d come to Sunnydale to see. Pike hesitated several yards back and paused, cigarette clamped in his teeth, to retrieve the pack of smokes from the pocket of his jeans. His palm was clammy as he freed the pack and another cigarette before he switched out lit for unlit from between his teeth. 

Blue eyes narrowed on the marker as he brought the still burning cherry to the new cigarette and inhaled, bringing the heat and spark to another. He brought his boot up and scratched out the old one, glanced down at it once to ensure it was out before pocketing it and the pack of smokes. He took another inhalation before taking a spot beside her grave. The headstone was grey with only a slight curving at the top to differentiate from the rows upon rows of other markers. 

The script was simple, the words bland and Pike took another drag from his cigarette. He supposed be could blame the welling of his eyes on the smoke as it spilled out of his mouth, but he wasn’t such a bitch that he couldn’t admit her death shook him. He swallowed and stepped forward, his free hand rising so that he could lick his thumb before he rubbed it against a smudge on the granite. 

It fairly gleamed beneath the California sun and for some reason the urge to make her last mark on the world perfect had him acting like a pansy. His hand dropped away and he squatted down to press his knuckles against the carving of her name as he took another drag from his cigarette. Pike blew it out the side of his mouth, away from her headstone, and dropped his head to lean his damp forehead against the warm granite. 

A breeze tickled the back of his neck now that it was exposed and his eyes fell closed, pushing free the tears gathering in his lashes. They traveled down his cheeks to become trapped within several days’ worth of stubble while he did his best to quell his sudden need to shout at God and anything else that would listen. 

He’d thought she’d live longer without him distracting her, without him holding her back. Bobby Singer would call him a damn fool if he’d knew the reasons he’d had for tossing aside one of the few things in his life that made sense to him—especially since the ‘ _thing_ ’ had been a person and a damn important one at that. 

His head lifted and he dragged a hand down his face, wiping away the tears before he leaned in to whisper against her carved name, “I love you, Summers. I miss you,” his voice caught and he sniffed, “Just though you ought’a know.” 

Pike exhaled once more before he rose and brought the cigarette to his mouth. He gave her gave his back and forced himself to put one foot in front of the other until he was past the tree he’d claimed and heading towards the gate. He passed through the opening in the hedges that lined the cemetery and made his way back to the sidewalk.

He caught sight of the Griswold; his nickname for Ellen Harvelle’s monster of an automobile. A nickname Summers would have approved of wholeheartedly and that thought brought his arm up so he could take another drag. He glanced from side to side before crossing the street at a jog. He slowed as he neared the parked station wagon and his chin dipped in acknowledgement of the car’s occupants before Pike opened the passenger’s side door. 

Ignoring the the pinched look to Ellen’s face he took one last drag before grinding the cigarette out on the street and slid into the seat beside her. He took another swipe at his face again as a voice piped up from the backseat. “You were in there awhile.” 

Pike turned to Joanna ‘call her Jo or else’ Harvelle, whose brown eyes were soft with an understanding that chafed. He fought the urge to glower at her and instead a shrug lifted his shoulder before Pike offered, “I suppose I was.” 

Ellen cleared her throat and dragged Pike’s gaze away from her daughter as she inquired, “Where to now, Oliver?” 

His mouth quirked inward with her use of his first name and her inability to call him anything else—aside from a pain in the ass and the like— but he _was_ grateful for her un-lady like approach to the touchy feely shit. Ellen tended to repress like, well, a hunter and at times like these Pike welcomed her particular brand of suppress it and maybe it’ll go away. 

It rarely did, but Pike wasn’t one to bitch. 

He turned his attention to the road beyond the windshield and replied, “Missouri.”

* * *

The end.


	5. Echoes of Life

Title: Echoes of Life  
Word Count: 200  
Challenge: #109 – under the stars   
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all related characters are copyright Eric Kripke, Kripke Enterprises & The CW Network. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright Joss Whedon and ME. No infringement intended.

* * *

A hand rose, cupping around a clenched jaw and he breathed into it a few times before dragging it back and forth across several days’ worth of stubble as he glared up a star filled sky. He glared past it, into the heavens and wondered where the fuck God was in all of this. 

“I’m sorry,” the quiet utterance had Pike stiffening and turning his glare on the intruder of his misery as she explained, “I don’t usually tell the truth. I usually just tell folks what they wanna hear.” 

“How? How is she in hell?” His voice caught and he swallowed thickly before snapping, “She—”

“Was one of the good ones,” she interrupted and brown eyes caught his gaze, held it, “I know, Oliver. I know you loved her,” his mouth opened and she spoke over him, spoke his thoughts without accusation, “And you never told her. Never the right time.” 

He turned his gaze back on the sky, the stars and knew some of them were already dead and all that was above him was echoes of life and all he loved was beneath him. 

He’d gone to Missouri and learned the truth. 

He wished he hadn’t.

* * *

The end.


End file.
